⟪ When she had seen him standing at her shrine, she had left him to what she thought might have been a prayer of sorts, and instead made her way to the grave she knew to be Ignis' own. What she left him was simple, a prayer written on a paper and then folded to look like flame, and a small wreath of herbs, the kind meant to be burned ––
and then she's fighting. It's an experience, the whole thing of it as beyond Melisandre as anything could ever be, until he puts on the ring and she feels the familiar burn of power.
She does walk from it in a daze, her lantern dimmed, but her eyes red-bright and glazed and alight with something beyond most people's understanding. Almost, she walks into him – but straightens out quickly enough. ⟫
It is alright. ⟪ Her hands touch his, feverishly hot, holding them as he holds the mug. ⟫ It is I who has to thank you. In my lands, yours would count as the purest death – to feel one like it is a greater gift than I would ever dare ask for.
the thank u. sorry about the weird.
and then she's fighting. It's an experience, the whole thing of it as beyond Melisandre as anything could ever be, until he puts on the ring and she feels the familiar burn of power.
She does walk from it in a daze, her lantern dimmed, but her eyes red-bright and glazed and alight with something beyond most people's understanding. Almost, she walks into him – but straightens out quickly enough. ⟫
It is alright. ⟪ Her hands touch his, feverishly hot, holding them as he holds the mug. ⟫ It is I who has to thank you. In my lands, yours would count as the purest death – to feel one like it is a greater gift than I would ever dare ask for.